The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘Has Gagnon tracked down a doctor?’

  He collects himself with an effort. ‘Bertrand’s not around. And Dr Bergeron’s line was engaged. He’s still trying.’

  ‘It’ll be simpler to run over there.’

  ‘I can’t leave here,’ Miron says, a sullen stubborness in his tone. He exchanges a look I can’t quite interpret with his prisoner.

  ‘Okay. I’ll go.’

  Relief fills me as I leave the nauseating smell of the cell behind and step out into the crisp cold of the evening. I walk quickly toward Dr Bergeron’s office.

  Only as I hear her voice over the ansaphone, do I remember that this is one of Maryla’s late days at the practice. It is clear from her smile that she thinks I have dropped round especially to see her.

  ‘Pierre. How nice.’ She smooths the collar of the white uniform she wears for office hours, then lowers her eyes guiltily. I notice a neatly dressed young woman sitting in the corner of the room, a baby in her lap.

  ‘I should only be another twenty minutes or so,’ Maryla says in a formal voice. ‘There’s just Mme Chrétien and baby Yves to go.’

  ‘In fact, Gagnon’s sent me, Maryla. We need a doctor over at the police station. Can you ask Bergeron if he’ll come, as soon as he’s through here.’

  Maryla’s posture takes on the rigidity of a chinkless wall.

  ‘Is it for that man the police have caught?’ the woman in the corner asks, her question underlined with a tremor.

  I nod. Her shudder is visible.

  ‘I said to my husband when it all happened that a woman like Madeleine Blais had no earthly reason to do away with herself. I’m no feminist. But you can’t help get the impression that these men are out to do us down. What’s to become of you, Yves?’ She gives the baby on her lap an uncertain glance, then to make up for her betrayal bounces him too vigorously.

  ‘Dr Bergeron says he’ll be over as soon as he’s finished here. Yves’ shot won’t take long.’ Maryla turns a frosty face on me.

  ‘Thanks. Be seeing you.’

  I am already at the end of the corridor, when she comes up behind me. ‘Pierre,’ she puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say all those things about Madeleine Blais. I’ve been feeling terrible about it, ever since I saw Mme Tremblay on the television.’ Her lips quiver. ‘And scared. A killer loose in the area! Thank God, they’ve got him now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gives me a beseeching look. ‘Would you like to come and have dinner with Stefan and me later.’

  I squeeze her hand. ‘I’ve got things to do Maryla. And I’m preoccupied at the moment. You understand.’

  She nods mournfully and I rush away. I cannot cope with Maryla’s sadness. If only I could find her a suitable man. I run through the possibilities for the hundredth time, as I make my way back to the station. I am just about to push the door open when I change my mind. There is little more I can find out here for the moment.

  Just as I skirt the town hall a Mercedes pulls up and I hear my name called from the window.

  Mayor Desforges eases himself from the depths of the car with remarkable agility. After a moment spent in the necessary polite exchanges, he lowers his voice and complains, ‘I don’t like this new development at all, Pierre. Not a single bit. Of all places for Madeleine Blais to be murdered. I had just about convinced this collective of ceramicists to take over the old toy factory. You know, the MacKenzie place. But now…’ He shakes his head.

  ‘There are deaths in Montréal, too,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yes, but this is a women’s collective. Still.’ He taps his leather-gloved fingers on his belly. ‘It can only be to the good that a local man got the murderer. Who would of thought it of Gagnon, eh? And the villain’s not from Ste-Anne. An Anglo, Gagnon tells me. Mme Tremblay must be relieved.’

  ‘Relieved that he’s not from here?’ I find myself saying.

  ‘No…no. Just… Convey my regards to her, Pierre. I’ve got to dash to a meeting.’

  He propels his sturdy form through the doors of the Town Hall and vanishes with a wave.

  For a moment, my old anger at all the inhabitants of Ste-Anne and their bigotry overtakes me. I don’t stop at my office as I had intended. Instead I get into the car, back up with a lurch, and head to the right, away from the main street.

  As I drive, I try to imagine Madeleine with the beautiful spaced-out youth. Why won’t the pictures coalesce? It’s not as if I have ever had any difficulty in imagining Madeleine with other men before. And this time I have the evidence of her bedroom. I saw the rumpled sheets. I have her grandmother’s word. I position myself at her window and look in, but all I can see are blurred shadowy shapes. Nor can I force my mind to take the next steps, to follow the pair down the hill, towards the barn, into it. The boy is simply too vacant, too young, his thin limbs too weedy.

  But what if my premises are all wrong? What if this Will in the omnipotence of an ‘up’ is altogether different from the Will I have seen - in a daze in front of the fire, retching weakly in a stinking cell? Or what if both he and Madeleine were on something together, some potent chemical concoction? Not heroin, no, but some other cocktail. And if she decided to perform the ultimate act for his eyes alone?

  Something in me still refuses the picture. Is it simply that Will’s voice is not the voice on the answering machine that Mme Tremblay identified as Madeleine’s guest? She could easily be wrong.

  The picture shifts and suddenly hovering in front of my eyes is an image of Will setting the barn alight. He is swaying on those long, thin legs of his, the wind blowing through his black hair. He turns his back on the gust and shelters the match with his hand, stares at the magic of the leaping flame, watches it billow and grow.

  That I can see clearly. Yes. Whether he did it accidentally or purposely is for the moment almost irrelevant. I edge myself into his skin and as I do so, I notice that I am not following the route home. Yet I know exactly where I am going.

  10

  _______

  The stars are hidden above a charcoal wash of cloud. Behind a gnarled beech hedge, the house stands out squat and white against the darkness. It has a dilapidated air. The paint on the clapboard bubbles and curls. The gutter hangs loosely from the roof and slopes precariously where it has rusted away from the pipe. Each fresh gust of wind brings a yawning creak.

  A faint light flickers from the edges of a single curtained window. It helps me follow the path where the ground slopes gently towards the river. The door is to the side, through a covered porch which bears a worn mat. On it the word ‘Welcome’ is still distinguishible in English.

  From inside raucous music reverberates, the fast, pounding beat of techno. The bell I press makes no dent on the noise. I wait and then bang my fist and bang again and wish I had some police badge to flash.

  After what feels like an eternity of pounding, there is a pause in the music. I press the bell again and for good measure, knock.

  ‘Ya?’ A voice calls out, just as the music comes on again.

  ‘Open up,’ I shout.

  The door squeaks open to the width of a chain. A young face appears, rust-coloured dreadlocks, staring eyes, a sharp yet flaring nose. For a moment in the thin gleam of light I don’t know whether the features are male or female. Then the ‘what d’you want?’ makes it clear.

  ‘Does Will live here?’

  The youth’s eyes narrow. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘No, a lawyer.’ I cheat a little. ‘Pierre Rousseau. Look, why don’t you open the door and let me in. I just want to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I haven’t got any answers.’

  The music has been turned off and in the background I hear a woman’s voice.

  ‘Who is it, Charlie?’

  A wisp of a girl appears behind him. He slams the door in my face.

  I press the bell again. Through it, I can hear them arguing. I wait. ‘Open up, Charlie,’ I shout after a moment.

  The
door swings open. The girl stands there, swaying a little, wispy strands of hair half obliterating her face. She smiles a wide smile which makes her pretty, an elf in skin tight leggings and a baggy sweatshirt.

  ‘Charlie doesn’t like visitors,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you like this. I didn’t have a number to ring.’

  ‘You’re cute,’ she lisps. ‘Charlie,’ she shouts suddenly. ‘He’s cute. He won’t be any trouble. Come on in. Have a drink.’

  She leads me into a living room which still bears traces of what must once have been rustic holiday comfort. There is a wide arc of a fire place, an L-shaped sofa, a scattering of tables. Striped Mexican blankets hang from the walls. But around them the paint is mouldy. The fabric on the sofa has worn thin and is splotched with wine stains. Balls of dust fly at my tread. Dirty dishes clutter the tables. A row of Russian Babushka dolls stands atop a radiator shelf. The largest of the dolls is open, its upper half swaying slightly.

  The light comes from an assortment of candles. They flicker and gut from floor and mantle. Everywhere there is a stale smell of embedded nicotine and the higher, sweeter whiff of marijuana.

  A memory overtakes me of another house, not unlike this, but on the northern outskirts of Ste-Anne. It must have been in the late ’sixties. Two American draft-dodgers had moved into someone’s holiday home. The gossips of Ste-Anne weren’t pleased. Stories of wild excess circulated amd with them a growing undertow of rancour. My father took it into his head that I should make friends with the youths and suggest to them that it would be better if they moved on. He had a feeling something unpleasant was about to erupt. It would be best avoided. Against my will, I did as he asked and found myself in a space akin to this one.

  From the next room, I hear cupboard doors slamming, the clatter of objects hastily hidden. I imagine needles beings stashed, bottles of pills, strips of powder.

  The girl pours some wine into a blotchy glass and passes it to me. ‘Charlie’s just cleaning up,’ she giggles.

  The giggle goes on until Charlie reappears and then stops abruptly. His sweatshirt has Crash written on it in big letters. His jeans are strategically punctuated with holes. He pats his pocket. There is something hard and angular in it. He thrusts his hip forward and sneers.

  ‘Don’t try anything.’

  Fear tickles at my nostrils. The girl bursts into giggles again.

  ‘Shut up,’ Charlie says to her. ‘Okay, what d’you want?’

  ‘You got a licence for that?’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Look, all I want to know is about Will. He’s in trouble.’

  ‘Will who?’

  The girl laughs again, then clamps a hand across her mouth.

  ‘You tell me that. It’s one of the things it would be useful to know.’

  I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. I veer round to see a large, slightly puffy youth with dark curling hair and sleepy eyes, plodding down the stairs.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s the mu…?’ He stops as he spots me. ‘Who’s this?’ He looks scared.

  ‘I’m Pierre Rousseau,’ I say soothingly, ‘from Ste- Anne.’ I pull a business card from my pocket for good measure and hand it to him. ‘I’ve come about Will. He’s in trouble. Arson.’

  ‘Arson!’

  ‘Maybe worse. Can you tell me about him?’

  ‘We’re not getting mixed up in that, man. Shit, my father will kill me.’

  ‘Shut up, Raff,’ the dread-locked youth intervenes.

  ‘Don’t tell me to shut-up. You’re not even supposed to be here.’ Raff lumbers down the remaining stairs.

  I glance at the dread-locked youth whose hand hovers warily around his pocket. The tension in the air increases my own. They are as unpredictable to themselves as they are to me.

  Raff pours himself a glass of water from a large open bottle, drinks. A genial look settles over his pudgy features. ‘So you’re from Ste-Anne?’ He eases himself into the sofa, switches on a lamp. He has the hearty air of a doctor interviewing a new patient. ‘Nice little burgh.’

  Though I have never met him, I suddenly imagine his father, plump and professionally pleasant, a guise for Raff to fall into in difficult moments.

  ‘Yes.’ I return his half-smile.

  ‘We’re just down for the holidays,’ he offers.

  ‘And Will?’

  ‘Cori picked him up at a party. Last week. Before Christmas.’ The elfin girl giggles again and flops down on the sofa beside Raff.

  ‘Idiot.’ Charlie mutters.

  ‘Where’s Cori?’ I ask.

  ‘She went back to the big city’

  ‘Without Will?’

  ‘Guess so. It was just … just a passing thing. He already had a girlfriend. Down here. Rich and beautiful, he said she was. Boasted. That’s why he tagged along with us.’

  ‘Shut it, Annie,’ Charlie growls.

  ‘Look, Mr. Rousseau, we don’t really know Will.’ Raff has his cordial face on again. Don’t even know his second name. He was just hanging out here. Bedding down. Just for a few nights, on and off.’

  ‘Who was the girlfriend?’ I ask, my voice not quite steady.

  ‘We don’t have to answer any of your fucking questions.’ Charlie suddenly lunges at me and I find my fist furiously meeting his chest. I would like to keep pounding at it but Raff drags him away with a ‘Manners, Charlie’ and heaves him towards the sofa.

  ‘Charlie’s a little excited,’ Raff says to me smoothly. ‘Aren’t you, Charlie. Cool it. This man’s almost a neighbour.’

  ‘Who was the girlfriend?’ I address the girl again.

  ‘Dunno. Don’t really believe in her. Cori said Will wasn’t much cop in…’ She flushes and stops herself. ‘All we know about Will is that he’s American. From Detroit or somewhere.’ Her eyes betray fear for the first time. ‘Arson, you said. What did he burn down?’

  ‘A barn.’

  She giggles.

  ‘Annie!’ Raff reprimands her.

  From behind me I hear the creak of a door. I turn round and see a wraith-like shape peering at us from a darkened room.

  ‘It’s okay, Hal. Get back to bed.’ Raff calls out. An edge of nervousness has crept back into his voice. His smile flounders. ‘Some more friends,’ he says, as if he were already in a courtroom.

  ‘Where was this party you met Will at?’

  ‘Further up north. In a club. In Ste-Agathe.’

  ‘Did he go and see his girlfriend once he got here?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. We don’t keep tabs on each other. As you can imagine.’

  ‘But Will deals, right?’ I say softly to Raff.

  His face crumbles. Nothing comes out of his open mouth.

  ‘Nevermind. You can tell the police about it. You better prepare yourself.’ I say it without a hint of menace. I feel rather sorry for Raff, but as I make to leave, Charlie leaps up and blocks my path. His hand is poised threateningly on his hip just above the bulge of the gun.

  ‘What the fuck are you gonna tell the cops?’

  I still myself. ‘It depends what they ask me. If they ask me anything.’

  ‘Oh ya? So what the fuck you so interested for? Your barn or something?’

  I shake my head.

  His look turns querulous. ‘You just a busybody then.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  He still isn’t prepared to let me go. ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Buy what you like. Buy a newspaper. My wife’s been murdered.’

  His body goes slack. As he digests my words, I push past him into the cold.

  I don’t look back. I am thinking that in death, Madeleine has become my wife again.

  Snow has started to fall. Big blundering flurries flop across the windshield and gather in white banks along the edges of the screen. I drive slowly, my tires squelching uneasily in the soft new snow, my headlights illuminating only random flurries of whitenes
s.

  After a few minutes, I see the yellow glow of lights through the trees in the distance. The car clock reads 9.40. Not too late. I turn off onto a narrow drive and park a few metres from the sprawling, slightly ramshackle house, with its beguiling row of mansard windows.

  ‘Pierre! Tiens. It’s good to see you.’ Oscar Boileau envelops me in a bear hug. ‘We missed you on Tuesday. And I left you a message when we heard, but…’ He holds up his hand to stop my apologies. ‘I know you’ve had other things on your mind. Miserable business. How’re you holding up?’ He surveys me speculatively for a slow silent minute, then ushers me into the warm kitchen.

  Oscar is my closest friend in Ste-Anne. We met just after I came back here. A painter, he had moved into the vicinity from his home in Trois Rivières some years earlier. He came to my office because he wanted to acquire a strip of land adjoining his house, together with some outbuildings to convert into studio space. A second child was about to squeeze him out.

  Our friendship grew quickly. A big, generous, bearded man with dark laughing eyes, Oscar had everything I didn’t have: high spirits, single-minded dedication to his work, a loving and devoted wife, and children. And I had, as he teasingly told me, everything he didn’t - experience of the world, intelligence, good taste and money. This shared acknowledgment of our differences and liking came as we were working out how Oscar could raise the funds to purchase the property he wanted. I helped a little by buying three of his canvases. Two of them hang in my office. One, I gave to Madeleine. She liked it so much, she came to meet Oscar on one of her visits and bought two more.

  Needless to say, he was enthralled by her. Though he rarely does portraits, he offered to paint her. He told me it would be fascinating to try and render in solid, emphatically material oils a subject who owed part of her magic to that flickering, illusory domain of the screen.

  Madeleine said she’d be thrilled to sit for him when time allowed. Time didn’t.

  Oscar knows that Madeleine and I were once more than friends. He doesn’t know much more. Perhaps he’s guessed, but there never seemed to be much point in elaborating a past which often feels too intimate even for my own reflections.